Eye of the Beholder

You think I

am blind and negative,

but you should see



I see the cascades

of hurtful words

and flaming gestures

that threaten the warmth

you think is the sole inhabiter.


The window glass

is wiped clean

and lets in the cold.

I look out one window

and you see

through the other.


My sclera is white

and you think

the rest of me is

unpigmented as well.

Can’t you see

beyond your own eyes?


I see corners

you do not see

and you think

it is because I do not choose

to speak how I

see your corners as well,

they are invisible to me.


The logs are crackling

and a stubborn standoff

is the sullen flame.

I point out the ash

and you point the clear spots

it isn’t.

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